Whatever remains, must be the truth
by 2penstopaper
Summary: AU - Written from two points of view, we see John meet the mysterious, yet utterly captivating Charlotte Homes. Together, they solve crimes, John blogs about it, and something happens that neither one was expecting...
1. A Study In Pink - Chapter 1

Hi! We're Scarlett and Jennie and we'll be taking you through the crazy workings of our collective brains!

Just a bit of general info that we want you to know before you begin:

This story is written in the points of view of John and Charlotte. We will tell you at the beginning of the chapter which POV it is.

John's POV will be written by Scarlett.

Charlotte's POV will be written by Jennie.

We really hope you enjoy our work! Please feel free to leave any comments, all feedback is useful!

Love,

Scarlett and Jennie xxx

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**John's POV-**

Mike held open the door as I made my way into the hospital lab he had brought me to in St Bart's hospital. I hated the way everyone held open the doors. I hated the limp I'd developed since returning from... But more than anything I hated this cane I had to use, which caused people to look at me with sympathy that I did not need or want. Damn their sympathy! Sympathy is not going to cure my limp, and neither is this damn cane.

I looked around at the impressive array of equipment that the lab held.

"Bit different from my day!" I said.

"Ha, you have no idea!" I turned to look back at Mike. We trained at Bart's together when we were 18, two young boys who wanted to make the world a better place. Of course, I left after our second year, and we hadn't seen each other since. Bit of a surprise when he turned up on that park bench, a real blast from the past. Except, Mike was actually fulfilling the dream of changing the world. He was a teacher now. And me? Well, I'm just John Watson. Nothing happens to me.

Mike made his way across the lab and sat down on one of the tiny wooden stools provided for the students and staff here. I stood near the door, feeling like an intruder in new territory. Mike was looking at something on the other side of the desk. I turned my gaze towards the thing that held his gaze. I can't really remember registering anything else other than the beautiful creature who stood before us.

She must have been about an inch shorter than I was, and I was never the tallest man in the world, but her legs just looked so long and toned. She had a tiny waist with an obvious, but not prominent, chest. She stood tall, all her angular curves accentuated by her purple dress, cut off just above the knee with a slightly full skirts and a sweetheart neckline. But it was her face that held my attention, trapped as if there was a physical bond keeping my eyes locked with the woman in front of me. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with cheekbones so prominent I was surprised she didn't cut herself on them every morning as she applied whatever make-up she used to her face. Her eyes were a piercing, sapphire blue, with just a hint of green playing around the edges of the irises, framed with long eyelashes. They were wide and round, like jewels sparkling as a centrepiece to a delicate, intricate and complex piece of artwork. Dark eyebrows arched high over them, giving her an expression halfway between aloof and surprised. Her lips were baby pink, with either no lipstick applied, or just worn of throughout the day. They sat like a cupid bow just beneath her petite nose. Everything was perfectly proportioned and nothing looked out of place. And her hair cascaded down her back in ebony curls, like a waterfall. As if to enforce the metaphor, she turned to look back at the microscope she must have been using before Mike and I walked in, and her hair moved with her, as fluid and graceful as water. She wore minimal jewellery, just two plain, white pearl stud earrings. The colour and glow given off by the pearls almost matched that of her skin.

My train of thought was cut off by a voice, a voice with could only be compared to honey and Christmas bells. It danced over the words effortlessly and I struggled to pay attention to what was being said.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with a land-line?" Mike sighed.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

I felt in my pocket. Yes, there was my phone sitting snugly in the denim of my jeans.

"Er, here. Use mine." I took the small black device out and offered it out to her.

"Oh." She looked pleasantly surprised at the offer. She shot a look at Mike, just a passing glance, before standing up to retrieve the phone. "Thank you."

"An old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced by gesturing in my general direction as she walked slowly towards me. Her hips swayed ever so slightly as she did so, producing a whooshing sound from the skirt of her dress as the different layers of material rubbed together as she moved. Her shoes – small heeled court shoes – made a clipping sound with every step she took. She took the phone out of my hand and I tried to keep my eyes straight in front of me, it would have been rude to stare. I chose instead to look back at Mike, who gave a suggestive nod as she opened the phone and began to type.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I froze, eyes still on Mike. I turned my head slowly towards the direction of the sound. She was faced away from me, eyes focused on my phone in her hand, typing rapidly.

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" She turned to look at me with those piercing eyes I had found so striking. She didn't look for long though. After what could have only been a second, her attention was returned to the phone. How could she have known about my military service? And where it was? To narrow it down to two possible places after having only met me for 30 seconds, it was impossible. I looked back over to Mike, making sure that this wasn't a practical joke. The idea had been plaguing me since he mentioned that he knew a friend in search of a flatmate, it was all too convenient to possibly be true.. I half expected to see him stifling laughter, be he just looked bemused, not the expression of a joker.

I looked down towards the floor, vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening behind me, but my thoughts were in disarray after this sudden confrontation. I focused entirely on getting my words out in the right order.

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did you-" I was cut off as she began to speak to the person who had just entered.

"Ah, Molly. Coffee. Thank-you." Molly was a small, mousey girl. Dressed in a jumper and lab coat, she struck me as the kind of girl who preferred to not be the centre of attention. She was pretty, of course, but she couldn't ever compare to this woman who was now taking the coffee mug out of her hands whilst handing me back my phone. They shared a fond smile, obviously friends then. Until something in the woman's face dropped. "What happened to the lipstick?" I looked over to them. Something had shifted in the mood.

"It wasn't working for me." Molly's voice had a warmer tone to it, but it wasn't as musical, as captivating.

I put my phone back into my pocket.

Watson, get a hold on yourself. You have known this woman for less than a minute, and you are already comparing her to other women, who you have know for even less time!

The black haired woman turned to walk back to her original seat, sipping her coffee as she went. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. You're mouth's too," she paused, making grasping gestures in the air with her perfectly manicured, delicate fingers as she tried to find the correct word, "small now!" She finished.

"Okay," I heard Molly sigh. She made her way back out of the lab. I'm sure her mouth looked fine – with or without lipstick. But Molly seemed to take it in her stride, a little put out, but accepting. Poor girl, she looked like she received comments like that all the time. I watched her out of the door. She seemed nice.

"How do you feel about the violin?" As Molly left the room, I looked back at Mike. He flashed me a half smile, as if he knew what was coming. There was a silence, and I realised that the unanswered question was aimed at me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I turned my attentions to her again. My voice sounded like a mumble compared to the woman's confident, clear dialect. I shifted my weight to my other leg as she began to speak.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," she began, not even looking up at me. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you?" She finally turned to face me. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." She smiled at me a little patronisingly, as if she were making an internal joke at my expense, or like I was a small child who had just produced a mediocre piece of artwork but she was determined to convince me it was good.

I stared at her. Flatmates? I glanced back over at Mike, I could feel confusion lining every part of my face.

"You- You told her about me?"

"Not a word." Mike had a hint of mystery in his voice, but he had always been once for Drama and excitement. His eyes were wide and he shook his head in small movements, holding a vile of some purple liquid up to a light.

My eyes diverted to the floor again, the default direction for anytime I'm confused, before looking back up at the woman. "Then who said anything about flatmates?" I asked quickly. This was the second time this afternoon that she had guessed two things about me – and correctly. I wanted to know what was happening.

She turned her back to me, picking up a long mess of black, woollen fabric that had been draped across another of the wooden stools. "I did," she replied. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult girl to find a flatmate for." She put on, what John now saw was her coat as she spoke. It reached just below the hem of her dress, and the fabric was fitted at the waist, flattering her figure. "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." She spoke so quickly that I had a hard time processing it all at once, but somehow I managed. She now wrapped a blue scarf around her neck, almost the exact same colour as her eyes. The coat and scarf together, it suited her, highlighting her paleness and giving her a glow, almost like a halo around her. "It wasn't a difficult leap," she concluded, giving me another patronising half smile.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" I asked the floor. Really, a grown man should be able to look at something else other than the floor, but my mind obviously did not care what a grown man should and shouldn't be able to do. I took a deep breath and swallowed before looking back up at her. I was a little intimidated. Here was a beautiful, confident woman who knew things about me before I'd said two words to her, and was still telling me things about myself that she should not have already known.

She ignored my question and carried on. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." She held my gaze for about a second before making an apologetic gesture with her head, cocking it slightly to the right. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." She swept elegantly and effortlessly past, and I was still struck dumb over the comment about a riding crop? Did I hear her correctly? I came to my senses just before she exited through the double doors. A flat together? After only 2 minutes of meeting? Didn't seem logical.

"Is that it?" I asked.

"It that what?" She asked, moving with graceful steps back towards the centre of the room. Her hands buried themselves in the pockets of her coat as she watched me.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" She stared at me, then turned to look at Mike, the unasked question of 'is he serious?' was passed between the two of them. She met my eyes again.

"Problem?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I broke into a smile, this was ridiculous. I looked back over at Mike. Now the unasked question was 'is she serious?' Mike made no comment, but just looked back and forth between me and this woman. It suddenly struck me that I did not even know her name. In fact, all I knew about her was that she knew Mike and was friends with another woman named Molly. How was I supposed to even consider moving in with this woman if I didn't even know her name.

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." I waited for an answer. She looked at me with such intensity it made me slightly uncomfortable. It was as if she were scanning me, analysing, reading. But that was a ridiculous thought. There was absolutely no way she was going to find out anything by just looking at him for half a second.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home form Afghanistan, I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you disapprove of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks that your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." She seemed to deliver this all in one breath. I looked down at my leg and then back up at her, astounded. "That's quite enough to be going on with don't you think?"

She made her way back toward the door in her slow, graceful movements. I stared straight ahead, I couldn't bring myself to look at her. How did she know all of that about me? It was all true, but how did she know? She half opened the door, the wooden structure her lower half, so only her chest up could be seen. Her hair brushed against the edge of the door as she leaned back towards my and held my gaze, hand still on the silver handle.

"The name's Charlotte Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." She gave me a flirtatious wink before nodding to Mike. "Afternoon." Mike raised his hand is acknowledgement and she swept out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her and I could just see the flash of her black coat disappear through the narrow pane of glass in the door. She left behind a silence, and a very confused John Watson. I looked questioningly at Mike. Did that just happen?

As if he could read my thoughts, Mike answered my look with, "Yeah, she's always like that." He nodded at me, as was still glued to the spot. I shifted my weight from one leg to another, and then back again, but nothing was comfortable.

What the bloody hell just happened?


	2. A Study in Pink-Chapter 2

**Notes-**

Hello, I'm Jennie.

I'm the other brain writing this fan fiction. As Scarlett has already mentioned beautifully, I shall be writing Charlotte's POV in this fanfic. I'm not as talented at this as Scarlett, however I have tried my best. This is my first chapter in Charlotte's POV. It is safe to say... she is a tough one to write for.

I hope you enjoy it.

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**Charlotte' POV-**

I sat still as the cab came to a stop, from the corner of my eyes I noticed John limp towards the house his cane in one hand whilst he balanced himself with the other. He did come, I knew he would I thought as I sat for a second and watched him reach the door. '221B' read the bold characters on the great black door.

"4.50, please mam" the cabbie sputtered whilst glancing at me from his rear view mirror.

Wrinkles. I would say 56. Smoker with bronchitis, jaundice as well. He looked dishevelled, long shift through the night with cups of coffee to keep him awake. Three kids, aged 26, 18 and 14. How did I know? I just did. The yellow shade of his eyes showed he was suffering from jaundice, the splutter and coughing all through the ride determined bronchitis. The coffee, deduced from the stain on his shirt as well as the yellowish tinge in his grin. I could tell he had three kids his keys held a picture of their arms wrapped around him. Their dress showed how old they were.

This is what I do, I deduce things. I simply observe. And never has anything I observe made me feel uncomfortable. Until now that is.

"4.50 please mam" repeated the driver as I gazed out of the window.

"Yes yes! Here you go" I said, handing the driver his money impatiently. 'Hello." I said to John whilst exiting the car.

"Miss Holmes" John greeted me with a smile. His eyes were fixed on me as I took his hand into mine for a firm handshake. I couldn't help but notice his cheeks flush slightly as he smiled at me.

"Charlotte, please." I corrected him as we released our hands to stand in front of the door.

"This is a prime stop, must be expensive."

"Well Mrs Hudson, the landlady, has given me a special deal. I did her a favour. A few years back her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out."

"Wait, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." I smiled at him.

Perplexed, his face held a distinct look of awe. I noted this mentally as the door swung open.

"Charlotte" said the elderly lady affectionately at the door, whilst embracing me in her arms. She was warm and smelled of flour and baking. She smelt of, what some people describe to be, home.

Mrs Hudson, she has always treated me like a daughter, far more than I can say for my own mother. I always made whatever effort I could to return the affection. Although, it can be said, I'm hardly an affectionate person.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson." I said releasing myself of her embrace and introducing the man stood beside me. John still held a stunned look on his face but nonetheless smiled warmly at Mrs Hudson.

"Hello."

"Come in, come in!" Mrs Hudson smiled back joyfully, waving John in. I followed closely behind across the landing as Mrs Hudson closed the door behind.

I jumped up the stairs as John followed slowly behind, trying to support his leg as he climbed the stairs.

I stood at the door watching him closely, I wanted to show him the new flat but for once I remained strangely patient. Waiting has always been such a boring concept, yet here I was willing to wait for this man. How peculiar?

Once he had reached the top step I flung open the door swiftly and let him enter the flat.

It smelt old and there were mismatched pieces of furniture scattered around the flat, but that did not catch my attention. Instead I watched John intently, looking for a glimmer of emotions as to whether he liked it or not. I don't know why I cared so much; I never cared about what others thought before.

"Well this could be very nice," he said nodding at me in approval. I felt a rush of relief as he walked around the living room taking in the room further, "Very nice indeed."

"Yes" I agreed, "My thoughts exactly, so let's go straight ahead-"

"Soon as we manage to get it cleaned up-" John interrupted, we both looked at each other in confusion,

"Oh." I looked around the room, and threw the objects laying around into the boxes, "Well obviously I can straighten things up a bit" as I stick a knife into the mantelpiece. I can't believe I still have that with me… it was from a murder case. Only one thing came to mind, Anderson.

"That's a skull." John said directing is cane at the skull on top of the mantelpiece. Ah yes… the skull.

"Friend of mine," I corrected him, "Well I say friend."

Mrs Hudson walked in at that moment as I was took my coat off and threw it on the sofa. I brushed my dress of whatever dust I had gotten on it whilst 'attempting' to clean up.

"Well what do you think then Dr Watson?" she asked, "there's another bedroom upstairs if you be needing two bedrooms." I laughed to myself at this whilst unravelling my scarf. Sly women.

"Well of course we'll be needing two," John replied pragmatically.

"Oh don't worry dear, there's all sorts here. Mrs Turner, next door, got married once."

John looked at be bemused. I on the other hand did not look back in return. I do love Mrs Hudson.

"Charlotte, the mess you've made," sighed Mrs Hudson as he walked into the kitchen. I couldn't care less what she thought was a mess, instead I watched as John slumped himself into the armchair near the fireplace.

I opened my laptop pretending not to notice him watching me quietly.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he said. I couldn't help but like this idea, even if I didn't show it. I wonder what he thought. Amazing… Wonderful…Brilliant?

"Anything interesting?" I asked, even though I already knew the reply,

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction'" I knew it.

"What did you think?" I asked rather proudly, his face contorted into a face that could no less be described as 'meh'. I frowned at him waiting for him to reply,

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an aeroplane pilot by his left thumb"

"Yes?" I said defensively, "I could read your military career, your face, your leg and your brother's habits from your mobile phone."

"How?"

I smiled at him conspicuously and turned way to return to my laptop.

"What about these suicides then Charlotte?" Mrs Hudson asked whilst reading the paper, "I thought that would be right up your street, three exactly the same."

I wasn't paying much attention; something else had caught my eye out of the window. "Four." I corrected as the police car flashed down on the street. "There's been a fourth, there's something different this time"

As if on cue Greg Lestrade pranced up the stairs to face me.

"Where?" I asked curiously.

"Brixton, Lorriston Gardens." He replied not even needing to tell me the details,

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah" I said impatiently wanting him to get to the point.

"Well this one did." He revealed. This was getting interesting, "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" I asked, already anticipating the answer.

"Anderson."

I grimaced with a slight feeling of sickness erupting in my stomach, but this was too interesting to get distracted by a buffoon. I sensed John watching me intently, I enjoyed the attention.

"Anderson won't work with me." I said dismissing Lestrade's enjoyment in the news.

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant." I replied angrily.

"Will you come?" he asked again, this time sounding more desperate. I liked it.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

I could feel the sense of relief in Lestrade's posture.

"Thank you" he bowed and then turned to leave the door stopping only slightly to notice John perched on the chair before exiting the door.

John looked around in a confused manner, as if to gain some explanation for what was happening. I smiled to myself as I felt my brain starting to fragment the pieces together.

"YES! Brilliant!" I exclaimed jumping in the air, almost having to stop myself from tripping on my heels. "Four serial suicides and now I know. Oh! It's Christmas. Mrs Hudson I'll be late, might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper." She said reminding me once again. I knew that she would get some food anyway. She never fails to.

"Something cold will do." I said to her, "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up."

I walked out of the door. I stopped in my tracks. He didn't follow. Why didn't he follow? He should have followed.

I walked back up the stairs whilst taking my gloves out of my pocket. I stood at the doorway and watched John as he opened the newspaper. He looked a little disappointed.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." I said to him as I slipped each glove on.

"Yes." He replied looking up. He grabbed his cane and lifted himself up from the chair to face me. What is this? I couldn't help but look away as he looked more intently. Charlotte Holmes never shies away.

"Any good?" I asked to break the intensity of his stare.

"Yes. Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes."

"A bit of trouble too I bet?"

"Yes. Of course. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." He said as I walked in closer.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh god yes!"

We both moved swiftly out of the door and down the stairs.

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. I'm popping out." John replied to the bewildered Mrs Hudson who stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"Both of you?" she asked in what could only be described as disappointment. I turned swiftly to face her.

"Possible suicides, four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" I said grabbing her by the shoulders and kissing her cheek.

"Look you're all happy. It's not decent" she said laughingly,

"Who cares about decent? The Game, Mrs Hudson, is on." I replied walking out of the door. I lifted my hand to call a taxi. This is it.

I have a case.


	3. A Study In Pink - Chapter 3

**John's POV-**

We sat in silence as the taxi jostled us about. It was dark outside, that didn't take long. Charlotte was glued to her phone, a blackberry by the looks of it. I looked back to the front of the taxi, trying to figure a few things out.

What was going on? A DI turned up at the flat, talked very briefly about suicides and a note and then there we were, sat in awkward silence in the back of a taxi. I won't pretend that I was unhappy with the close proximities, but still, given the circumstances I'd rather know why I was there.

What was all that about violent deaths and injuries? Where were we going? Why was I needed?

"Okay, you've got questions." Not a question, a statement. So she sensed my anxieties.

"Yeah, where are we going?" I turned to look at Charlotte, who was looking out towards the front of the taxi with something like a knowing smile. I followed her gaze, not noting anything special about the road laid out ahead of us.

"Crime scene." She replied simply. "Next?"

I looked towards my lap, slightly embarrassed by my next question. She had known my life story with just one look, and here I was having to vocalise my curiosity. It just didn't seem fair. "Who are you? What do you do?" I looked back up to her. Her hair was down again, a few strands were resting lazily on her cheek and I fought an urge to brush it away. Get a grip Watson, I told myself for what must have been the 100th time today, you hardly know her. It would be an invasion of personal space to do that. She continued to stare intensely at the road ahead.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective," I answered, unsure, turning to look out of the window on my immediate right so she would see the slight flush of colour creep across my cheeks. I did not want to appear foolish in front of her.

"But?" She was probing an answer gently out of me.

"The police don't go to private detectives." I stated. It was true, they didn't – at least, not to my knowledge. A smile creeped across her face. If it were possible, this made her look even more breath-taking, in fact, I was having a hard time concentrating on the air rushing in and out of my lungs as she smiled.

"I'm a consulting detective," she said impressively, "the only one in the world – I invented the job." Her head turned towards me slightly, and I could see her whole profile.

"What does that mean?" I must admit I was confused. What exactly was a consulting detective? What skills does that require, and why did she label herself so?

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

I had to laugh. It was a ridiculous notion. Scotland yard consulting this woman? Didn't make sense. "The police don't consult amateurs." I watched her carefully. She looked at me. She said nothing for a while, but the look gave off a clear warning. I had done her a great personal insult to call her an amateur. Bad move Watson, never aggravate an unknown force, you never know if they could be enemy or ally. Quite calmly, she refocused her attention to the front screen of the taxi, but John could feel the tension, tangible in the air. When she began to speak, her voice had lowered, the honey and Christmas bells replaced by a cats purr with dangerous undertones.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's – so, army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So, it's at least partly psychosomatic, that says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic – wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

My mind went completely blank, remembering only our brief encounter in the lab at Bart's the afternoon before. I had to look away, the look of confusion and absolute astonishment could not have been clearer on my face unless there had been a big, cliché, neon sign reading 'look at me, I'm astounded!'

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Charlotte explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and I could practically hear her eyes rolling. Well, it wasn't to me. "Then there's your brother," she continued as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"Hm?" I turned back to look at her, full of interest.

"Your phone," she said, taking it from me once again, twirling in her gloved fingers as she spoke, "expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this, it's a gift then. Scratches, not one but many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving?"

"'Harry Watson'. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to – so, brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months old and he's just given it away. If she left him, he would have kept it, people do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone and you never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right."

This caught my attention. "I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Her eyes were wide, blazing with a kind of passion I used to see from some of the boys in the army. Her whole being seemed to crackle with electricity, and I was sure that if I touched her, she would shock me so much my heat would stop beating. More hair was now draped across her check. She handed me back my phone and brushed it off with her small hands, tucking it carefully behind her ear.

"That… was amazing." I was hardly the most inventive language I could have used. I could have told her how her very being lit up with and excitement when she was talking, as if what she were saying was the most important thing in the world, and that excited and awed me. I could have told her that I had never met anyone in the world quite like her, and that this gift she possessed needed to be treasured, but also shown off to the entire world. I could have sung her praises, but I left her with amazing. My brain and my mouth did not seem to be connecting as well as I'd have liked them to.

Her head tilted towards me, then back to the window, and back to me again. Is it possible that I just surprised her?

"Do you think so?" I answered this immediately.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." Of all the times in my life when I would have picked to be speechless, this was not one of them.

"That's not what people usually say." Her voice was quieter, softer, honey dripping it's way back into the low purr.

"What do people normally say?" What else could people say? What she just did was absolutely phenomenal.

"Piss off." She looked back at me.

There was a moment of silence as we just looked at each other, before our faces contorted into smiles and soft laughs were reverberating around the taxi. I looked out of the window to the dark streets we were travelling past. The look in her eyes during our moment of silence, it was almost like, pride. Was it true that people usually rejected such amazing observations? I'm a polite man, of course, but I couldn't be the only one who recognised a truly mind-blowing gift when I saw one? This woman was remarkable. So, why weren't people telling her this?

We pulled up to a normal looking street, with normal looking houses, full of people who led normal lives. Only the flashing blue lights and the large area cordoned off by a police tape showed the scene to be anything but normal. Charlotte got out of the taxi as soon as it stopped, and I followed her, more slowly of course, and with a lot more of an effort – damn my leg. We began to walk towards the scene, my cane making a noise on the tarmac, and her shoes clicking ever so slightly as we did. Her hair was jostled by the wind slightly, and the scent of mint, coffee and, worryingly, a faint smell gunpowder swept over me.

"Did I get anything wrong?" She folded her coat around her more securely. It was quite a cold evening, after all.

I thought through it, and a small smile played around my lips. Yes, she had got something wrong, something very wrong indeed.

"Harry and me don't get on," I said as normally as I could, revelling in the fact that I now had one over on the genius the was Charlotte Holmes, "never have. Harry and Clara split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker." It actually hurt to admit this. I care for my sister very much, and I really disliked her 'little indulgence' as she sometimes called it. It was ruining her life, not just her physical self, but also her mental self, and the mental states of the people around her too. I didn't blame Clara for getting out of it while she still could.

"Spot on then." Charlotte's voice bought me back to the present. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." I continued to walk towards the blue lights that were now only a few feet in front of us. It took a few seconds before I realised that our paring was now missing one person. Charlotte was stood just s few paces back eyes straight in front of her, not focusing on anything, looking exactly like she found out that she'd got an obvious question wrong on the most important exam of the year.

"Harry's your sister."

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I looked back at the scene, feeling the confusion and nervousness rise in my stomach. I wanted to know what was going on, and just get back home – was that Baker Street now?

"Sister!" Charlotte hissed behind me before moving forwards again.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" But Charlotte's mind was obviously more pre-occupied with the errors she had made during her observations.

"There's always something," she muttered under her breath.

She walked right up to the police line as if she owned it, only to be greeted by, "Hello freak." I stiffened. No, I must have misheard, surely somebody did not just call Charlotte Holmes a freak. I looked up to see the face of another woman, taller than Charlotte, but Charlotte's confidence make it seem the opposite way around. Charlotte offered up a smile to the new woman, a smile that was obviously not meant in a friendly gesture.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Charlotte looked up at the house they were all gathered outside of.

"Why?" The woman questioned.

Charlotte turned back to look at her, slowly. "I was invited."

"Why?" There was nothing friendly about this woman, it did not take an idiot to figure this out.

"I think he wants me to take a look," said Charlotte rather patronisingly. Not that I blamed her, not in the slightest.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?" Said the woman as Charlotte ducked under the police tape.

"Always, Sally." Charlotte was watching the house again, a look of concentration on her face. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." Charlotte shot a mischievous little smile in my direction and nodded her head ever so slightly. I took this as a sign and moved forward to also duck under the police tape. Sally held up her radio in her had to stop me.

"Er… who's this?" She said, giving me a look not dissimilar to the one Charlotte gave me when she was 'reading' me, except Scally's gaze held a lot more hostility. Charlotte's eyes had not moved from Sally since she stopped me.

"Colleague of mine, Dr Watson. Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." Her tone was perhaps a little more harsh than intended, but Sergeant Donovan seemed not to notice. The last sentence was suggestive, however, now was not the time to delve into the past of Miss Charlotte Holmes. They were at a crime scene.

"A colleague?" The sneer in Donovan's voice could not have been more evident. "How do you get a colleague?" She turned to me. "Did he follow you home?" I felt uncomfortable, and my leg was beginning to give me a lot of grief.

"Would it be better if I just waited and-"

"No," Charlotte cut me off as she held the tape high enough for me to walk under. She looked back up at the house, still holding the tape. Donovan was shooting us both murderous glances. I shrugged and moved forwards. Donovan sighed as she raised her radio to her lips.

"Freak's here. Bringing her in."

Charlotte moved in choreographed steps, twirling and spinning, coat dancing behind her as she took in every aspect of the environment around us. It was a sight to behold. She was distracted by the presence of yet another member of the team behind the investigation, or so I assumed.

"Ah, Anderson." Charlotte and I watched as the man in question walked towards us in his blue forensic overalls, removing his equally blue latex gloves. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?" God, Anderson sounded whiney.

"Quite clear." Charlotte clicked her tongue. The way she and Anderson looked at each other, there was clearly bad blood there. I made a note to ask my new flatmate about that later. Flatmate… it was the first time I'd thought of her that way. A warm feeling pooled in my stomach, it felt so right. I smiled in spite of myself. "And is your wife away for long?" Charlotte held her chin high, daring Anderson to deny anything. Anderson paused, for a moment surprised, but his face soon returned to the look of utter contempt it had held previously.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told me that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Charlotte sang. Her face gave the most patronising look I think I've ever seen someone give and she smiled broadly.

Anderson's face screwed up in confusion. "Well, of course it's for men - I'm wearing it!"

Charlotte did not react immediately as I thought she would have. If it were me, or any other man in the world, the insults would have been rallied backwards and forwards continuously. But Charlotte smiled sweetly, too sweetly, in fact it was sickeningly sweet and she inched closer to Anderson, who was frozen on the spot, watching her move towards him. She stood on her tip-toes in order to reach his ear, before whispering very suggestively, "So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson whipped round to stare straight at Sally, who had a look of alarm on her face, eyes bulging, eyebrows raised so high that I was surprised they didn't vanish into her hairline. This had clearly had the intended affect, as Charlotte recoiled, her smile now a little more genuine, but still sickeningly sweet. She sniffed the air in an overdramatic fashion. "Ooh… I think it just vapourised. May I go in?"

"Now look," began Anderson, spinning back around to face Charlotte and waving his hands around in front of his chest defensively, "whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything," said Charlotte, her tone of voice now copying the smile on her face as she pushed past him, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." She pushed past Donovan. I followed suit, trying my best not to laugh. Charlotte stopped in the doorway and turned back to the two of them, still stood there, looking shocked and panicked. She looked Sally up and down. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors , going by the state of her knees." She smiled again before entering the house. I too looked Sally up and down, before moving past her and following Charlotte into the house.


End file.
